


Whatever You Want

by dorothy_notgale



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Intense Sub Energy, Deliberate Tense Switching, Mutable Genitals, Other, Temptation, The Ineffable Husbands Are Actually Pretty Effable Here, This Was Revealed To Me Once In A Dream, You're Welcome For The Pornography, gender stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:22:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorothy_notgale/pseuds/dorothy_notgale
Summary: Temptation is about knowing what someone wants... and giving it to them. Crowley's good at that, but he's never looked too close at Aziraphale, because that's like staring into the sun.It's only a sin if you do it right, and that's always been Crowley's problem. Crowley does thingsveryright.





	Whatever You Want

Crowley is a demon. As sins go, in his later years he tends towards inspiring wrath, greed, petty day-ruiners that build up and can be worked large-scale without too much face-to-face work.

It's not that he isn't _good_ at lust; temptations are something of an art, but he generally reserves that level of personal contact for one being, and then usually over an extra slice of cake or an evening spent getting pleasantly drunk instead of toiling at virtue.

(He can make mouths water with a casual description, can make a person long for the haze of forgetfulness and the ease of dereliction.)

His success rate vis-a-vis sushi rolls and plum wine is impressively high considering his target's divinity, not that he reports it. But it means he rarely has much energy left over for outraging folks as he'd used to do.

Because yes, Crowley is a demon, and yes, he's got skills. He's been on Earth since the Beginning, and he's Known humans like the backs of his hands.

(They're big, and lean, with slightly-too-long nails at the end of fingers shaped ideally for stroking the stem of a glass or tracing the curve of lips.)

Temptation is about making a person want something, and then giving it to them.

It's only a sin if you do it right, and that's always been Crowley's problem. Crowley does things _very_ right.

* * *

Crowley never touched Eve. But Crowley did watch; there was so much to learn, and she knew things nobody else did, her teeth through virgin red skin and white flesh blasting wide her mind.

Crowley learned of desire, and need, and appeal, the curve of hip and the sheen of sweat, and the danger that came after it was all done. The risks. The screaming and the blood.

Tempting the daughters of Eve in the form of a son of Adam was difficult, because they knew the consequences could be so severe. Crowley loved a challenge.

Crowley was wiry and spare, nonthreatening but with a wicked smile. The perfect mistake: he'd never do anything they didn't ask for, never go farther than they wanted. Hands at breast and hip, lips and teeth at throat, he would hold and kiss for hours full of assurances of their safety. Lines moved infinitesimally with each teasing caress. They would shiver and shake in his lap, feeling his hardness pressing against their wetness. He didn't push, because he could afford to wait forever; it was all the same to him.

They were like fruit, ripe and ready when finally they asked for it, and he consumed them gently just as they desired, leaving the pits behind.

* * *

Crowley can read desires in humans, partly due to his nature and partly due to repetition. Over time, things become rote. Not every human is alike, but in the fullness of history patterns repeat.

(Enter any gathering, and he can find at least one person of the type to be vulnerable to his charms, whether or not he acts on it. He does not, now, but he could.)

Aziraphale, though, is always a mystery. Crowley can see how much he _wants,_ but it's smeared, opaque--he wants in a strange generalized way. Too, Crowley avoids looking all that deeply, because then he himself might be tempted to pursue it. If he were to see what Aziraphale wants--

If he could _give_ Aziraphale what he wants--

(He watches Aziraphale's lips at the rim of a glass, learns which wines he likes and drinks them himself as though they share a tongue. He tastes his cologne like it's air.)

Crowley understands temptation.

Understanding restraint is harder, but worth it.

* * *

Crowley was strange and forbidden and available. His face and his body were variable, but whatever the configuration, they hinted at things that folk desired in spite of themselves.

Men would grasp his hair, would hold him tight and expect resistance he was in no way inclined to give. His yielding was like water, but what he stoked was fire. They would kiss him and shudder, would curse themselves for their own foolish weakness, and yes, he could see it in them. They were weak for wanting something they held in such contempt; he made them desire enough to hate themselves.

You could only damn those inclined to evil, after all. They sinned against themselves when he disrobed and took them into his mouth or his arse or his cunt, or when he pushed his cock into their too too solid flesh; they burned for what he represented as much as for what he did.

They loved and hated him for it.

He loved and hated it, too.

* * *

Crowley shakes like a tree in a hurricane when Aziraphale touches him; he is not prepared for this. He has spent so long thinking without thinking of how it might go, how he might please this being. He's always wanted to tempt Aziraphale, but never never wanted to consider the consequences.

But oh, when Aziraphale kisses him and pushes him down onto the ancient couch, he has no more will to resist than he ever did. He is not made to refuse, not this one.

(His fingertips should burn with every brush, but they feel filled with light. _He_ feels filled with light.)

Aziraphale devours his mouth like he's licking cream from a pastry, touches his skin like it's made of silk--this he knows because he's seen both a thousand, a hundred thousand times.

"What do--what do you want?" he gasps when he can, filled with the aching need to _know_ which way to jump, which acts will serve. He's hard and wet and all in flux.

"Shh," Aziraphale hushes him infuriatingly, worrying a nipple with lips and teeth as though it's a fresh raspberry. His hands run up Crowley's thighs to the hem of his skirt, soft leather like a glove, not as soft as those palms.

(Tell me what to do--tell me what you want--tell me I'm doing it right--)

His leg is resting on a tweed shoulder, and he's looking down into the beautiful round face he's known in every possible way but this. It makes no sense, that after six thousand years there should still be an expression he can't read.

"Please, Aziraphale," he licks his own lips, feels his wrists caught and pinned to old velvet so gently that he could never dream of struggling. "Let me give you what you want."

"Oh, you are." And then it's just blond curls in his vision and against his thighs, heat and wetness and the shocking feeling that he's a treat, that he can please and satisfy just by _existing,_ and he's burning burning burning--

Crowley is a demon, Crowley knows sin and lust and temptation and desire, but Aziraphale is an angel, and Aziraphale knows how to _love_ him.


End file.
